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Chapter VII.

When Hope Bernard joined Jack Stanley on the following day, Jack was full of talk about his want of success.

“The fellow has left the place about six months ago, and gone to Auckland, it seems. I shall go to Auckland.”

“Are you quite sure he has left?” inquired Bernard, eagerly. “How did you find out?”

“Simply by asking,” said Jack.

“But did the people who told you know, do you think?”

“Well, you may ask for yourself,” answered Jack. “It was the waiter here told me; I dare say he knows.”

Bernard spoke to the waiter, and received the same answer which had been given to Jack Stanley; then he sat down, as if content to rest.

“When are you going to make inquiries about your father?” asked Jack, in the midst of dinner.

Bernard looked up with such an odd expression of face that Jack exclaimed,

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“You look exactly as if you had forgotten all about it until this moment. You are an odd fellow, I must say.”

“I will go out after dinner,” muttered Bernard.

Jack shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing more; and after dinner Bernard left the hotel, while his friend sauntered about the quay and looked at the shipping in the bay.

If Jack had followed his friend, he would have been surprised to find that he made no inquiries about Mr. Bernard, as if he had really forgotten the quest upon which he had come out to New Zealand. He went to the shipping offices, and satisfied himself that what Jack Stanley had said was true, and that Mr. Maitland had left Wellington six months before. Then he returned to the hotel, and being met by Jack at the entrance, the latter inquired of him,

“Well, have you heard anything of him?”

“He is not in the place,” said Bernard, throwing himself into a chair and his hat upon the table.

“How odd! and that my man should be gone also. Did you learn where he is?”

“No: he may be in one place or in another. There seems nothing certain known of him. In a place like this, you see, a man is forgotten as soon as he is out of sight.”

“What shall you do?” asked Jack.

“Go and look elsewhere. I don't care where I go.”

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“Come, it's no use being miserable about it,” said Jack. “Come to Auckland with me. Perhaps your father may be there.”

“As likely there as anywhere else,” said Bernard confusedly.

“It seems rather funny,” observed Jack, “that we should each come out in search of one man, and that neither of our men likes to be found. Yes, you had best come to Auckland with me. I have been thinking over things. I shall leave my money here. I suppose there is a banker or some one of the sort, and I shall go about the country for a time before I settle down to anything. Indeed, I could not settle down so long as my mind is in such a state of excitement about Maitland. I shall go to the principal places in New Zealand in turn to make inquiries, and you had better come with me. You will probably run up against your father, or, at least, hear where he is.”

“I think that is the only thing I can do,” answered Bernard, after a little consideration.

“We must each get a horse before we leave Wellington,” said Jack. “As you know, I brought my father's gun and his pistols with me, and I kept the money which his small possessions sold for for the purpose of getting a horse, that I might not have to touch the money which I wish to invest profitably. I wonder what I had best do with it?”

“I should consult one of the principal men here,” said page 76 Bernard, and take his advice on the subject, or you are sure to lose it all.”

So it was settled that the next day was to be devoted to business, and Jack and Bernard retired to bed.

There was no difficulty in banking the money, Jack keeping what he thought would be sufficient for present wants. Next he and Bernard purchased each a horse, and they then consulted together what next they should buy.

“I should like to live entirely upon our guns,” said Jack. “I have all my life longed to live the life one reads of in books: from hand to mouth as it were—not knowing at breakfast what one will get for supper.”

“Which, in all probability, would be nothing,” said matter-of-fact Bernard.

“We might take some flour, and, of course, we must take a pot of some sort, I suppose.”

“You see ‘pot’ is a somewhat comprehensive word,” Bernard answered. “What kind of a pot would you require?”

“Well, a saucepan I suppose it would be called,” said Jack, “or a frying-pan. I am sure I don't know what the thing is.”

“Perhaps we had better buy one of both,” suggested Bernard.

“Of course I shall take my pistols,” said Jack.

“What for?”

“Why, for defending myself against the natives, to be page 77 sure. I am not going to be killed and eaten by them, I can tell you.”

“I think you had better not, Jack. The natives are not likely to be otherwise than perfectly friendly; besides, they don't eat people now.”

“Oh, come,” said Jack, “I am sure I have read that they do.”

“They used to do so; but they have left off cannibalism since Christianity has been introduced amongst them,” said Bernard.

“Are you quite certain?” asked Jack dubiously. “It will be as well to make sure before we start.”

“Quite sure.”

“Still, they might insist upon tattooing us or something of the kind.”

“On the contrary, my dear boy, they are just leaving off the tattoo themselves; that is, amongst the young men it is no longer considered the fashion.”

“Hallo! why, where did you learn all this about them, Hope?” said Jack. “I must say, though, leaving it off is an improvement. I never saw anything more hideous than one or two old men whom I met in the streets to-day. If I had not been ashamed of doing so, I would have run away at the sight of them.

“But I say,” resumed Jack after awhile, “if the New Zealanders no longer eat their guests, and are leaving off tattooing themselves, they must be growing rather a dull lot, and I am somewhat disappointed.”

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Bernard burst into a hearty laugh.

“Really, Jack,” said he, “you are the most absurd fellow. Whatever did you expect from the Maoris?”

“Well, I had not formed any very clear idea of what I did expect,” answered Jack; “but at least I, as I said, thought they would all be tattooed, and dressed up in feathers and war-paint, and whooping and yelling as they danced around their fires; or going out on hunting expeditions or war parties, and bringing home scalps and prisoners, and eating them. I expected some amount of romance, at any rate; not to see a lot of frightful creatures dressed up like bad imitations of ourselves.”

“You seem to have jumbled together all the romance, as you call it, of all the savage nations put together. The Maoris do not scalp their enemies; I never heard of their doing so. Neither do they give war-whoops; and I doubt if they go on hunting expeditions. I do not know if there is anything to hunt.”

“Duller than ever!” said Jack.

“Never mind,” said Bernard. “I dare say we may find some amusement amongst the Maoris, even if they do not propose to eat us. Romance sounds very well in books; but I confess I have not much fancy to experience that sort of romance personally.”

“You have no poetry in your composition,” said Jack.

“At any rate, I would prefer keeping what little I have,” answered Bernard, “to having it eaten by a New page 79 Zealander. That would be too practical a philanthropy to suit me. But come along: instead of talking nonsense, let us go and buy the frying-pan.”

After a good deal of deliberation, Bernard and Jack succeeded in procuring what they considered necessary in the way of cooking utensils, and other things; though I think if Jack had been left to his own devices, he would have fared badly; and early one lovely morning in summer, that is, in the month of March, they started for the bush.

Each had a blanket and a mackintosh strapped in front of his horse, and between them they divided the powder and shot, their guns, a sack of flour, the saucepan and frying-pan, and various other things.

They rode out of Wellington slowly and leisurely, for all around was new to them, and to both of them, above all, was the new feeling of independence—of being responsible to no man for where they went and for how long they stayed away.

The contrast of his present life with what life had been to him in the dull London lodging and the dull secondrate school flashed across the mind of Jack Stanley as he moved through the bright, warm, but invigorating air, and he appeared for the time to have thrown off the feeling which had of late oppressed him in connection with his pursuit of Maitland. He seemed to have forgotten the existence of Maitland for the time, and was as light of heart and as buoyant in spirits as if there was no cherished page 80 sin in his bosom; so much so, that no sooner did he and his companion appear to be out of hearing of mankind than Jack raised a wild “halloa!” which made the country echo.